A Marriage Not Quite Made in Britain
by Camillo
Summary: You can kick a spy out into the cold, but that doesn't mean he'll be going all by himself. Characters announced for series 10 are mentioned but the plot is only mildly speculative.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! Long time, no posting. Life is busy. Here's a little something to apologise for my absence. There are more chapters to come. Reviews are nice.

SPOILERS: New characters announced by Kudos for series 10 are included in this story. The plot isn't speculative, but it does refer to teaser information in the same press release.

WARNING: The occasional swear word.

SUMMARY: You can kick a spy out into the cold, but that doesn't mean he'll be going all by himself. Or a farcical description of the reasons why "Let's get married today!" doesn't normally happen in Little Britain.

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/

**A Marriage (Not Quite) Made in Britain**

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/

Malcolm stared at the inside of his front door as the bell rang a third time, debating with himself whether to open it. As far as he was concerned, visitor numbers were supposed to decrease when one moved house by performing a midnight flit. But in the last few days he'd had to cope with Sir Harry Pearce in scotch-and-Shakespeare mode, Director General Sir Richard Dolby, in where-the-fuck-is-Harry mode, Alec White in they-owe-me-three-months-wages-the-bastards mode and now, according to his newly installed CCTV relay, Ruth Evershed in something-is-making-my-eyes-really-bulge mode.

It was all most unsettling for Mum. It was also a lot less boring than his first year of retirement. Malcolm donned an expression of polite curiosity and opened his door.

'He's out,' Ruth said immediately. 'Sacked and gone.'

'Are you sure? Have you seen him?'

'No! I bumped into the D.G.'s P.A. in Tesco Express and she told me. She's always had a bit of a crush on Harry and she's really upset.'

'Well I never. That's a bit Moneypenny.'

'So I hacked into the D.G.'s network drive to see what the plan is. Apparently, they're bringing in someone from _Defence Intelligence_.'

'At least it's not someone from Six.'

'She's called Erin Watts. And she's insisting on bringing somebody with her from their intelligence collection group. A techie to keep us all monitored, by the sound of it. Calum Reed?'

'Calum? Really? But he's excellent. Started off in signals and then moved over to geospatial analysis.'

Ruth's expression was unencouraging enough to make Malcolm stop talking and take three quite rapid steps backwards.

'Tariq will be mortified!' she exclaimed, following him down the hall until she had him backed up against the wall. 'It's all Harry's fault! He's such a-a-a—'

'—a wonderful fellow? A brave man?' Malcolm folded his arms and tried to look superior. 'Do we really want to bitch about the bloke who saved your life and exposed the most dangerous British agent since Kim Philby?'

'Harry didn't expose Lucas, I did!'

'But how easily did he kidnap you after that?'

'That's got nothing to do with it.'

'When it comes to the big fish, it's not good enough to just chase them into the shallows. You've got to land them. _You_ get kidnapped by the bad guys. _Harry_ puts on a pair of leather gloves and deals with them.'

'I was stuck in a van with a computer geek!'

'Tariq will be mortified.'

'If I'd had a gun it would have been different!'

'Really? Rumour has it you needed quite a few shots to finish off a very large Frenchman at a range of about five feet.'

'Oh bugger off, Malcolm!'

'You're in my house. You bugger off.'

Ruth's shoulders hunched and her head dropped. 'God! I'm sorry! I don't know what to do. I said something harsh and it turned out to be _completely_ wrong.'

'You can't hog the self-sacrificing limelight any more, old girl,' Malcolm told her more gently. 'Now that you've both immolated your careers for the sake of each other, can't you call it quits and settle down?'

'I can't even find him! He hasn't been home. He's not at his club. Alec's too sozzled to have a clue. Catherine hasn't seen him. I tried emailing Tom Quinn in Birmingham and there's no sign of him there.'

'If he doesn't want to be found, you'll just have to be patient.'

'But I need to say I'm sorry. And tell him I was wro-o-o-ng!'

She wailed something mostly incomprehensible about 'timing' and 'shit' and lurched in the direction of Malcolm's shoulder. Feminine tears weren't really his forte. He was therefore extremely glad to find Harry sidling into the hallway beside him, only too happy to take over weeping support duties.

Harry inserted himself between Malcolm and Ruth, wrapped her up in comfortable arms and rested his chin on the top of her head. He mouthed a silent 'thank you' in Malcolm's direction and then closed his eyes. The frighteningly stricken look that had tightened his features for the last three days began to recede.

Malcolm tactfully took himself off to check on Mum. He allowed himself a small smile _en route_.

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/

There had to be some sort of alchemy involved. A mystic combination of solidity, heat, strength and aroma that had the ability to dry up tears, release tension and induce the beginnings of bliss in less than a minute. Whatever the secret recipe was, it was blindingly apparent to Ruth that if Harry had ever pressed his attentions on her to the point of actual physical contact, he would have been successful.

Of course, then she might have been even more ashamed of herself for continuing to adore him after what happened to George. And of course Harry – being Harry – was fine-tuned enough when it came to guilt and shame to realise that. So he hadn't pressed. He'd kept strictly to the practice of "look but don't touch" and left the ball of comforting caresses in her court. He must _really_ love her ... oh.

'Have you got a hankie?' Ruth enquired damply.

'No. Sorry. Hang on, though.'

Without letting go of her, he manoeuvred them around the corner towards the kitchen and then used his foot to lever open the door of the downstairs loo. One hand shot out, grabbed a roll of toilet tissue and held it up.

She availed herself of a decent wad, wiped her face and blew her nose – all with her left ear still pressed against Harry's chest and her left arm around his waist. 'Thanks.'

'You're very welcome. Could I possibly kiss you now?'

She tilted her head back enough to look up. He possibly could. Did. Very thoroughly indeed. And then he took her upstairs to Malcolm's spare room and made the best love to her she'd ever experienced.

'Sorry it was a bit quick,' Harry mumbled, staring at the ceiling.

Ruth's head, heart and clitoris were shouting, 'Again! Again! Again!' in happy unison. 'It was lovely,' she said fervently, and kissed his chin to show she meant it.

'No need for little blue pills yet, but I'm suddenly very glad they exist.'

'Oh?'

'The more time we have for this, the better.'

'God, yes!'

Harry grinned and rolled over to face her. 'That's a heartening response if ever I heard one.'

Ruth kissed his chin again. And his cheek. And his nose. 'You blew my mind,' she whispered.

Harry kissed her lips. And her lips. And her lips. Then he yawned. 'I haven't been sleeping very well lately.'

'Me neither.'

So they curled up and slept the afternoon away.

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/


	2. Chapter 2

SPOILERS: New characters announced by Kudos for series 10 are included in this story. The plot isn't speculative, but it does refer to teaser information in the same press release.

WARNING: The occasional swear word. Geography. Anti-everybody.

SUMMARY: You can kick a spy out into the cold, but that doesn't mean he'll be going all by himself. This is also a farcical description of the reasons why 'Let's get married today!' doesn't happen in Little Britain.

And I forgot the disclaimer in the first chapter. Oops.

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/

'They haven't officially sacked me yet. Dicky says they'll do it on Friday morning. The chairman of the JIC and the head of Legal will be there too, to dot the i's and all that.'

'What then?' Malcolm asked, prodding the potatoes with a fork to check they were done before taking them off the hob and pouring them into a colander with steamy panache.

Harry barely paused in the process of dishing up sausages. 'I don't know.'

'Yesterday, you spent three hours closeted in my office with the Director General of MI5, and came out with a smirk on your face. Of course you bloody know.'

'You're calling him Dicky. Not Sir Richard or That Complete Dickhead,' Ruth piped up. 'And you didn't mention meeting him here to me.'

She was sitting at the kitchen table with a large glass of red having been told by the men that they were perfectly capable of managing sausage and mash between them. Harry put the grill pan down on the draining board and gave her a look.

'I must have been distracted,' he said.

Ruth smiled beatifically. 'But you're not now,' she pointed out.

The look grew sultry. 'Oh, really?'

'Yes, really. You and I both know that you'd flirt with Osama bin Laden if it suited your purpose. Stop trying to distract me and start talking.'

'You're seriously suggesting that I only flirt with you to divert your attention?'

'No. I'm saying you don't usually do it in front of poor Malcolm.'

Harry sat down next to her and leant close. 'What will I have to do in front of poor Malcolm to convince you otherwise?'

Malcolm blushed wildly and pointed the potato masher at them. 'I'm going to mash loudly. When I turn around, you're going to be behaving yourselves and ready to talk,' he said sternly.

It turned out that Harry had a mission. Over dinner, he explained that it was an ultra clandestine, strictly off the books trip to Russia. If he completed his task, all would be forgiven and he would still have a job and a pension. If he got caught, he was on his own and there would be no one trying to rescue him from Lubyanka.

'Yes there bloody would,' said Ruth.

'Well anyway, the fact of the matter is that Russian relations with the Middle East are comparatively good compared to our own, and much better than America's.'

'That's not hard,' said Malcolm.

'It's remarkable if you think about it. Historically, the USSR sided with the east against the west. But the Russian Federation manufacture arms with Israel _and_ recognise Hammas. They fight Muslims in Chechnya but strike deals with countries all over the Arab world. They build a nuclear power plant in Iran but get cold feet when it comes to providing missiles.'

Malcolm finished cutting his sausages into precise one centimetre lengths and looked up. 'You make them sound open-minded in a ruthless sort of way.'

'Or simply less bothered,' said Ruth.

'Exactly. Russia will deal with anyone if it's good for Russia, and if you weren't part of the Soviet Union, it won't try to influence your religion or your politics. America will do business, but it interferes more.'

'So where do you come in?'

'There's trouble brewing all around the southern half of the Mediterranean. MI6 have an analyst who's predicting regime change in multiple nation states within the next year. Egypt, Tunisia, Syria, Libya, maybe Morocco, maybe even Jordan and Bahrain. The UAE and Saudi Arabia will hate it. Oil prices will keep on rising.'

'Jesus Christ,' Ruth muttered.

'Or not. The CIA are worried that toppled dictators with strong ties to the west will be replaced with democratically elected conservative Muslim governments.'

Malcolm sighed. 'They won't like that.'

'No, they won't. I shouldn't think Greece, Italy, France and Spain will be cheering either. Especially not with a global recession and a lot of angry unemployed people looking for someone nearby to blame.'

Ruth grimaced. 'But the EU _have_ to deal with whoever emerges.'

'Or watch America get even more aggressive on our doorstep.'

'Or use Russia as a middle-man with the Middle East, and try to keep things civil,' Harry said, frowning into his wineglass.

Malcolm pursed his lips. 'We cosy up to both sides, and keep buying the oil regardless of the winner?'

'_Regnum defende_,' Ruth quoted wryly.

'Anything is better than east meets west in a major conflict that can't decide if it's about oil, religion or freedom,' Harry pointed out. 'Who would have the moral high ground in that one?'

'Nobody,' Malcolm replied glumly.

'Who do you have to convince in Russia?' Ruth asked.

'Someone who can convince the Prime Minister.'

Malcolm carefully swallowed his last green bean and prepared to attack his mashed potato. 'Do you really think the suggestion of a member of the British Security Service is going to go down well with this particular Russian Prime Minister?'

'No. Which is why I can't get caught.'

'What's your cover?'

'Ex-MI5 officer embarks on a tour of all the places he couldn't visit while he was working.'

Ruth looked horrified. 'That's pathetic!'

'No it isn't. I took Catherine to see the Berlin Wall come down, but I still couldn't cross the border in case I was nabbed by the Stasi. I've never been to Sofia, or Prague, or St Petersburg, or Warsaw.'

'I notice Moscow _isn't_ on that list.'

'It _is_ as far as the Russians are concerned. Except for a very select group of people.'

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up. 'Sugarhorse!'

Ruth's face took on her default expression of worry. 'Jo made sure I read all the files when I came back,' she explained. 'Are you sure your Sugarhorse agents haven't been compromised?'

'Our old Director General was aware of the operation, but the only people who knew the identities of the western sympathisers we recruited were me, Dicky and Hugo Prince. We split the assets, and everything to do with their handling, equally between us. Nobody had the full list. When Hugo died in 2003, Dicky and I shared his agents by simply deleting the existing computer records and doling out the paper files between us, face-down. But Connie James accessed those hard copies just before we got to them. She passed on the information to the FSB, who chose not to act on it until 2008, when America announced that they were going to build a nuclear defence base on the border of Poland and Belarus.'

Malcolm nodded, remembering the crisis. 'And then they started killing Hugo Prince's assets, forcing us to tell the Americans that our Russian nuclear intelligence was probably dodgy, and they should back down.'

'They suspected you of being a traitor!' Ruth exclaimed. 'The idiots!'

Harry's answering smile was a scorcher. 'Hugo's assets were leaked by Connie. But not mine, and not Dicky's.'

'While they were interrogating you, Sir Richard went through all his names with the Home Secretary, Nicholas Blake,' Ruth reminded him.

'Yes, Blake informed me at the time. The little shit even had the audacity to tell me that _he_ was ashamed of _me_.'

'Little shit?' Malcolm enquired.

'Treasonous, treacherous, gigantic turd,' Ruth said tightly.

'Crikey. Did he really die of a heart attack after he was sacked?'

Harry met Ruth's eyes again and swallowed a mouthful of dinner. 'No.'

'We should assume that Sir Richard's Sugarhorse agents are compromised too,' she suggested gently.

'Which just leaves mine.'

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/


	3. Chapter 3

SPOILERS: New characters announced by Kudos for series 10 are included in this story. The plot isn't speculative, but it does refer to teaser information in the same press release.

WARNING: The occasional swear word. The Church of England.

SUMMARY: You can kick a spy out into the cold, but that doesn't mean he'll be going all by himself. This is also a farcical description of the reasons why 'Let's get married today!' doesn't happen in Little Britain.

Disclaimers? I've used a few.

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/

The following morning, Ruth wandered into the kitchen to make herself and Harry a cup of tea before she went to work. As she was wearing nothing but a man's shirt and a sated smirk, discovering Malcolm's mum waiting for the kettle to boil was ever so slightly awkward.

'Who are you?' asked Mrs Wynn-Jones surprisingly calmly.

'I'm Ruth,' said Ruth.

'Oh. You're here for that man Harry, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'He used to work with my Malcolm.'

'I know. So did I.'

'Malcolm's a dear boy.'

Ruth smiled. 'Yes, he's wonderful.'

'Did you stay the night?'

'Um, yes. Yes I did.'

'Are you Harry's wife?'

'No I'm not.'

'Then he better have slept on the sofa,' Mrs Wynn-Jones snapped. 'We're Chapel, and we don't hold with unmarried fornication.'

'No? No. Of course not. Malcolm's father was a rector, wasn't he?'

'That's right. And he believed that some things shouldn't be allowed outside the sanctity of marriage. So do I. So does Malcolm.'

Ruth wasn't going to argue. She wasn't even sure what Malcolm's opinion on the matter was. Instead, she began to ponder all the situations in which intimate relationships could be banned.

'Oh bugger!' she exclaimed a short while later.

'I beg your pardon?' Mrs Wynn-Jones gasped.

Ruth was already dashing for the stairs. 'Sorry! Um, I'm actually late for work. It was nice to meet you!'

Harry woke up instantly, but he didn't look too happy about it. 'If you're going to disturb the best night's kip I've had in a decade, the least you could do is get back in here and do it,' he grumbled, holding a corner of the duvet up.

'I can't. Malcolm's mum doesn't approve of sex before marriage.'

'It's a bit late for that, darling.'

'Yes, but she's not the only one.'

'I'm sorry?'

'If I'm seeing someone outside the service, I have to submit a permission to fraternise request.'

'So?'

'You're getting fired on Friday. What do you think the chances are of me getting permission to fraternise with my disgraced ex-boss from my super-vigilant new boss?'

'Oh bugger,' said Harry.

'That's what I thought! She couldn't object if we were married. There would be all sorts of human rights issues and employment law grounds for suing in that case. But according to our job contracts, she can easily force me to choose between you and MI5 if our relationship has no legal status.'

She sat down on the bed and absentmindedly wriggled back in next to Harry, who perked up considerably. 'Would this be a more appropriate moment to propose?' he asked lightly.

'I've thought of that. But there isn't time. Church banns take three weeks and a civil ceremony requires a notice of intent to marry for at least the same length of time before the registrar will issue a schedule of marriage.'

'Vegas?' Harry suggested weakly.

'Not properly recognised in the UK.'

'Europe?'

'Don't even go there. You need a Certificate of No Impediment and that takes weeks.'

'Didn't people used to flee to Gretna Green?'

'Because the age you could marry without your parents' permission was lower, not because you didn't have to have a marriage licence. In Scotland, there's the same civil process, and for a church wedding you have to be resident in the parish for at least ten days before your application will be accepted.'

'What about all those Regency romances where the hero applies for a special licence and has a midnight wedding in his sitting room? Was any of that true?'

Ruth giggled. 'How do you know about Regency romances?'

'Jane used to read them. I might have had a look once or twice. Load of soppy rubbish.'

'Well you can still apply for a special licence. One of my Oxford friends got one so she could get married in her college. I don't suppose the Archbishop of Canterbury is a friend of yours?'

'Nope. But I bet I can get in to see him anyway.'

Ruth jumped out of bed, whipped off Harry's shirt and began to pull on yesterday's underwear. Despite the various pleasant activities of the last 18 hours, he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Within a few minutes she was dressed in her usual layers, which in an odd sort of way made it even better when she leaned over and kissed him goodbye.

'Come on lazybones! You've got a bishop to beguile. Tariq will be able to tell you where he is today; you'd better pray it's not New Zealand or Brazil.'

What about you?'

'I'm due on the Grid.'

Harry blinked and sat up straight with the air of a man who had realised something important. 'Does this mean you'll marry me?'

'Find a way to do it in the next forty-eight hours, and I'm your Lady Pearce.'

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/

Conveniently enough, the Archbishop of Canterbury was in meetings all day at the Faculty Office in Westminster. Dressed in his best charcoal suit and favourite gold tie, Sir Harry Pearce strolled through the touristy crowds outside the abbey, paused in Dean's Yard and looked up at the neo-gothic facade of The Sanctuary.

Usually, the Savile Row armour, sense of purpose and Security Services ID card in his pocket left him feeling very difficult to intimidate. Today was different. He wasn't addressing a matter of national security; he was trying to wangle a wedding out of thin air. His heart felt tender, his throat was very dry and he was perilously close to having shaky hands.

'Say as you think and speak it from your soul,' he told himself, took a deep breath and marched on.

The Archbishop was not amused. 'I was given to understand that there is an urgent security issue,' he said, looking down at Harry from a considerable height advantage and exuding an air of dignified exasperation.

Harry stood his ground. 'In my opinion there is, your Grace. The woman I want to marry is the best intelligence analyst I've ever worked with. She speaks seven languages fluently, she's an expert cryptographer and her data mining skills are second to none. If there's a secret, she'll uncover it. If there's a pattern, she'll find it. There are literally thousands of people who owe her their lives.'

'Why can't you marry her in the usual way?'

'I'm about to lose my job. She was kidnapped, and held to ransom, and I gave away a state secret to save her life.'

'Isn't that treason?'

'Technically, yes. But I made sure the secret was harmless before I gave it away.'

'Are they going to charge you with anything?'

'No. They're going to fire me and strip me of my pension.'

'You don't seem too bothered about it.'

'Keeping her safe is worth a lot more to me than money.'

'What about the people you were _employed_ to keep safe? What if this secret you gave away wasn't harmless?'

'I would have lost her,' Harry admitted quietly. 'Both of us know the choice we must make between the life of an individual and lives of many.'

'Have you ever had to make that choice?'

'More than once, your Grace. I live with those decisions. They'll never leave me.'

The Archbishop folded his arms and appeared to deliberate. 'You'd better sit down,' he said eventually, gesturing to a chair. 'Do you want a cup of tea?'

Harry sat down gratefully. 'Yes please.'

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/


	4. Chapter 4

SPOILERS: New characters announced by Kudos for series 10 are included in this story. The plot isn't speculative, but it does refer to teaser information in the same press release.

WARNING: Faith is discussed. And some stuff that might be classed as Law.

All the usual disclaimers apply.

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/

'She'd be forced to give up her job?'

'Yes.'

'It strikes me as a rather more consuming vocation than most.'

'Yes, your Grace. Something I assume you're familiar with.'

The Archbishop nodded. 'You've obviously chosen her over your livelihood. Do you think she would?'

Harry sipped his tea. 'It's complicated. She _did_ give it up for my sake. After three years away, she was able to come back, but only under dreadful circumstances.'

'Dreadful?'

'I had to make one of those choices. And someone she cared about very much was the unfortunate individual.'

'Yet here you are, seeking a licence to marry her.'

Harry frowned. 'I told you it was complicated. Don't think this has been easy on her. I don't know if there's a decent phrase for what she's been through. A dark night of the conscience?'

'Why not a dark night of the soul?'

'Perhaps that too. I'm not sure if it's the hereafter that worries her more, your Grace, or just the here and now.'

'What about you? What have you been through?'

'Nothing more or less than I deserve.'

'Is your conscience clear?'

'No.'

'Do you pray for forgiveness?'

Despite his best intentions, Harry evaded the question. He didn't think that his scepticism when it came to all things faith-based would go down very well. 'I believe that when we're terrified, we all pray. There are no atheists in foxholes.'

The Archbishop regarded him intently for a moment and politely accepted the rebuff. 'Would your fiancée give up her vocation for this marriage?' he asked again.

'Until very recently, I'd have said no. Now ... after all that's happened? Yes I think she would. But the point is, I _really_ don't want her to have to choose. It's just not fair on her.'

'You definitely love her, at any rate.'

'And, despite everything, she loves me,' Harry replied firmly.

'Even so, I'm afraid I can't give you a special licence.'

'_What?_'

'There are issues with your request. And it's my opinion that they are not trivial. Do you want to hear them?'

Harry bit his lip, gave the Archbishop one fleeting glimpse of his fury and gestured irritably. 'Go on.'

'Firstly, you are a divorced man. In order to even consider you an appropriate candidate for marriage, I need to be thoroughly convinced that you are a truly devout member of the Church of England. Do you regularly attend church services?'

'No, your Grace. I was christened and confirmed, though.'

'Do you believe in God?'

Harry shifted in his chair. 'I'm ... I'm not sure, your Grace.'

'Thank you for not lying to me at any rate.'

'I didn't think it would help.'

The Archbishop rolled his eyes. 'What about your fiancée?'

Harry winced. 'I've never actually asked her,' he admitted in a very small voice.

The archbishop raised a bushy eyebrow and somehow refrained from commenting. 'Secondly, there's the issue of my position, and that of your mystery lady,' he said.

'I don't understand.'

'Correct me if I'm wrong, but you and she are currently members of Her Majesty's Civil Service.'

'Yes.'

'You are employed by the Crown rather than the government of the day.'

'That's correct.'

'The Crown is a corporation sole, an office occupied by a sole individual – Her Majesty the Queen. As the principle head of the Church of England, the Archbishop of Canterbury is also a corporation sole.'

'I didn't know that.'

'It's designed to ensure legal continuity between vertical successors in time to the office.'

'I see.'

'But the thing is, Her Majesty the Queen is also the Supreme Governor of the Church of England. And under advisement, _she_ selected me to be the Archbishop of Canterbury. In principle, she's both my boss and yours.'

'Oh.'

'If I granted you a special licence specifically to ensure that your fiancée can stay working at MI5 then it could be argued that I was using my powers of primacy in defiance of Her Majesty's role as head of state.'

'Ah.'

'Once upon a time, heads would have rolled for it. So on both religious and legal grounds, your application is denied,' the Archbishop finished, sitting back in his chair and smiling a little ruefully. 'I can't deny I've enjoyed our discussion, though. I'd help you if it didn't make a hypocrite out of both of us.'

'Thanks for listening at least. Um, is there anyone else I can ask?' Harry enquired rather desperately.

'Emergency marriages are carried out in hospitals. A civil ceremony requires a Registrar General's Licence, which allows a marriage to take place without the usual notice period. But only under conditions where the patient wishing to marry has little chance of recovery.'

'Thankfully, neither of us is terminally ill. I suppose we could use some sort of untraceable poison for which our technicians have an antidote, but it's a riskier strategy than I'd like.'

'There's always the Church of Ireland,' the Archbishop added hastily. 'Have you any connection with any protestant church in Northern Ireland?'

Harry froze. And then he smiled at the Arch Bishop of Canterbury very, very flirtatiously indeed.

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/

At lunchtime, he met her on steps of the Tate Britain, pulled her behind a pillar and kissed her until they were both stupidly wobbly kneed.

'Do you believe in God?'

Ruth blinked lazily. 'Right now? Absolutely. And his name is Henry James Pearce.'

Harry chuckled and kissed her again for good measure. 'You're not so bad yourself.'

'Why do you ask?'

'I failed to convince. I'm afraid my divorce was a bit of an issue. And my lack of faith. And the fact that I was honest about our motives, and in some way or other we're all working for the Queen. There was a conflict of interest.'

'Oh dear. Hmmm. I suppose it would be even more of an issue if you _hadn't _got a divorce.'

Harry smiled delightedly. 'That's the spirit!'

'You've got a plan, haven't you?'

'My darling, I have. But you'll have to phone in sick tomorrow.'

'Okay.'

'And we'll have to fly to Belfast tonight.'

'Belfast!'

'But first I've booked a table in the Rex Whistler. They do scallops with black pudding, which shouldn't work but really does.'

'Let's go. I'm bloody starving today!'

\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/

A little note:

Belfast again! Sorry about that, it was rather unavoidable in this case.

"No atheists in foxholes" is used in Harry's diary. The overall impression is of someone who thinks Faith is okay but dislikes some aspects of organised religion and despises hypocrisy – including his own. I will not respond to reviews questioning this aspect of the characters as it's my belief that it is open to whatever interpretation the fan-author wishes to make, and as your reviews are visible, but not my responses, this website is not an appropriate forum for debate.


	5. Chapter 5

Last chapter. Thank you for all the lovely reviews – I'm glad fluff mixed with geography and religion wasn't too much of a turn-off! If series 10 is really depressing, I'll write the trip these two make to cheer myself (and you) up ;-)

SPOILERS: New characters announced by Kudos for series 10 are included in this story

All the usual disclaimers apply.

\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/

**A Marriage (Not Quite) Made in Britain**

\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/

'You owe me, Tony.'

Harry was clutching Ruth's hand as if his life depended upon it. They were standing in the front porch of a run-down looking vicarage somewhere in County Armagh. It was two-thirty in the morning and it was pissing down with rain.

An old man peered at them through the crack provided by a door security chain. 'Owe you? You're talking rubbish. I don't even know who you are!'

Harry leaned closer, pulling Ruth with him. 'Do you really not recognise me?'

The Reverend Anthony Pallister hesitated and then widened his eyes. 'Harry Pearce? Goodness, I'm getting old and so are you! You'd better come in.'

'We brought reinforcements,' Ruth told him, waving a bottle of Bushmills.

'Now you're talking. What's a nice girl like you doing with a prat like him?'

'That's what we've come to see you about.'

Once the door was open, Tony retied his dressing gown and retrieved his walking stick from a nearby elephant's foot. He shuffled off down the hall, trailing Harry and Ruth in his wake as they scrambled to take off their wet coats and hang them up.

'Bring them through to the kitchen,' he called. 'The Aga's about the only thing in this place that still works properly.'

Ruth made tea, Harry poured whisky. The vicar sat in a sagging chair and watched them closely. The kitchen was sadly dishevelled but at least it was reasonably clean. The milk was fresh, the mugs only slightly chipped and the cat that settled itself on Harry's lap was a sleek and well-fed fellow.

'What brings you to see me after all this time?'

'Ruth and I would like to get married.'

'Which concerns me because?'

'We have to do it tomorrow. Today.'

'So we need a special licence,' Ruth added quickly. 'And Harry thought you were the best person to ask for help.'

'Why me?'

'Any bishop of the Church of Northern Ireland can issue a special licence, and I expect you have a few phone numbers.'

'What's the rush?'

Ruth glanced at Harry. 'How do you know each other?'

'I used to pass on information that I happened to come across. Harry helped my parishioners out from time to time. He used to be here every Sunday, regular as clockwork.'

'Oh!'

'He has a nice enough singing voice, but he never would join the choir.'

'I couldn't make it to practice,' Harry explained as if he'd had to explain numerous times before.

Ruth leaned forwards in her chair and introduced herself to the cat. 'If you used to be an agent ...'

'I wouldn't put it _quite_ like that.'

'But if I tell you that Harry's got a dangerous mission, you might actually believe I'm telling the truth.'

'Are you?'

'God's honest.'

'When do you have to leave?'

'Friday,' replied Harry.

'When did you find out?'

'Day before yesterday.'

'What did you spend yesterday doing, then?'

Harry grinned. 'Proposing marriage.'

'I thought you were married before. June? Janet? Jane?'

'Jane. I'm afraid we got divorced some time ago. We tried to make it work, but I just kept disappointing her. Eventually she kicked me out.'

'Children?'

'Two. Both grown up now.'

'Divorce means it'll have to be the Archbishop. And I'll have to ask you about the details if I'm to convince him to give you a licence.'

'Anything that'll help. I brought the Decree Absolute with me.'

Tony finished his whisky. 'Ruth, can you go to the bureau in the study? It's the door to the left of the front door. In the bottom drawer, underneath the Christmas carol sheets, there's a folder full of printed forms. We need to fill one of them out and then phone a friend.'

'It sounds to me like it's not just the Aga that works properly around here.'

Tony grinned and held out his glass for a refill. 'God moves in mysterious ways.'

\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/

The archbishop had known Tony since they were at school together. He arrived in a chauffeur-driven car, scrutinised the paperwork, glared at Harry and smiled at Ruth as she explained that she was christened and confirmed and a regular evensong attendee to boot. He left an hour later, leaving a special licence behind him.

Ruth became Lady Pearce in front of Tony, Tony's next-door neighbour, Tony's next-door neighbour's sister, and a couple of Canadian tourists whose SatNav had gone wrong, causing them to wander in asking for directions halfway through the Service of Preparation for Remarriage in Church.

The bride wore dark blue and had dirty hair. The groom wore olive green corduroys and smelt rather strongly of whisky. Everyone agreed that it was a lovely service.

\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/\o/o\o/

'Honeymoon?'Erin Watts shouted, standing up behind her desk. 'What bloody honeymoon?'

'Mine,' said Ruth. 'And Harry's.'

'HARRY?'

'Yep. I still haven't decided whether to change my name. Which do you think sounds better? Miss Ruth Evershed, or Lady Ruth Pearce?'

'You can't have bloody _married_ him!'

'Oh, I think I can. And owing to the fact that he's just been given the old heave-ho, we've got a bit of a trip planned. I'll be back, though, don't you worry.'

Erin stared at the dark-haired woman with the huge smile and had the sinking feeling that she might just have met her match. 'Where are you going?'

'Paris. And then Rome. And then Athens, Sofia, Warsaw and Moscow. Harry's calling it our Grand Tour.'

'How long for?'

'Four weeks. I checked with HR and they're fine about it. They said I was long overdue a decent holiday.'

'How the hell did you get clearance for a trip like that?'

'The D.G. and Six are okay about it. I suspect they're hoping it'll help Harry leave quietly.'

There was no arguing with that kind of authority. Erin sat down again and shrugged her defeat elegantly. 'Well, then. Have a nice time.'

Ruth's smile grew even bigger. 'Thanks. We'll do our best.'

THE END


End file.
